i will set fire to your bones
by Shiluette
Summary: Future Atoryo: in which Keigo slowly becomes deranged, leaving Ryoma to pick up the pieces until he wonders if he too, is going mad. A story about a failed legacy. A bit of Hiyoshi/Ryoma, Atoji, and Atoryoji.


This madness, it will be their swan song.

In which Keigo slowly goes mad with his legacy, leaving Ryoma to pick up the pieces until he begins to wonder if the insanity is rubbing off him too.

Atoryo, with a bit of Hiyoshi/Ryoma and Atoji, maybe a bit of Atobe/Ryoma/Jiroh.

WARNING: unhealthy aspects of relationships, VERY UNHEALTHY. Obsessed and possessive Keigo with equally possessive Ryoma. Keigo having daddy issues, Keigo having sexuality issues, Keigo having delusional issues, Ryoma having captain issues, Keigo having issues Ryoma having captain issues…the list goes on. Safewords mentioned, although not typically BDSM. Dub-con bordering on non-con, with no real explicit scenes. A good deal of Jiroh mentioned, because my Jiroh needs a warning. Also, a good deal of the story processing inside Ryoma's mind.

/

One memory lingers like curling smoke.

He is stretched out on the dewy grass, wet from the evening's rain. He cranes his neck to see the stars that never shine in Tokyo, letting his gaze shift from the heavens to the other boy, crouched by the riverside down the slanting slope. He never calls and the boy never comes.

And yet his fingers twitch instinctively; he wants to reach out and pull. He wants the boy to grasp his hand. Between them sits a yellow tennis ball, illuminated by the fluorescent light like an artificial sun.

Ryoma thinks back on this later, the night sky when everything was tranquil and ash, that perhaps this memory was to be the testimony of their relationship.

/

Ryoma hates this place.

He refuses the ride that Atobe-san always provides, sharply turning his head the other way as a chauffeur and a slick limo comes into view from the glass doors. The familiar, bobbing heads of black moss hair around him is almost a comfort, as well as the clipped Japanese pouring out from all sides as families unite in the arrivals gate. He slides into the crowd and weave around families, follow the signs to the escalator, and down he goes, from airport to Ginza, foreign yen bills clutched in his hand.

He has no bones to pick with Tokyo, not even with Ginza district, with all their posh shops lining up macaroons and coffee worth more than tennis balls. There are always places of higher grandeur and richness in every city—Rodeo Drive in LA, 5th Avenue in New York, Kensington in London. No, it's only the one building planted high and mighty at the central heart of Ginza that irks him—a palace, only a palace like Bauhaus raped Gothic and produced a high-edged monster. He would not stand in front of that monstrous product, not even to look up, to revel in the disaster modern art had created; Keigo would agree on him with that.

He even imagines the casual scenario as he would enter the transparent doors, sliding smooth for his arrival: quirking eyebrows and shuffling feet, _who in the hell's name is that scrawny kid?_ a whisper would go off, and a hasty reply,_ shhh, he's that boy, the boy Master Keigo took heart to. _

_Oh, I see._ The derisive snort would answer for itself. _He's that boy, isn't he? What do mean, 'took heart to'? He's a whore, simple as they come._

He hopes one of them would say that. Even a small innuendo would do. He would hear his name, cock his head and stare at the offending speaker, stare until they blush, and when they avert his eyes he would glance at their nametags. They would be gone, fired, _presto_. A small visit to Keigo's computer would do the trick and it would make his return flight bearable.

The first time he entered those doors, he erased 88 names as soon as he returned to London. No one dared look at him after that.

/

"You're late," the new secretary informs him primly, her (fake) brown hair slicked back (was this the fashion of the posh and the rich these days in Tokyo? Ryoma thanks the heavens he has London to return to) as she types random codes into her computer, all in neat colored tabs. "Atobe-sama was expecting you an hour ago."

"He wasn't expecting me at all," Ryoma says, rolling his eyes. He leans against the white wall, raising an eyebrow at the closed door in front of him. "So he won't be seeing me?"

"He doesn't have to see you," the secretary says coolly, her mouth frowning, "You take privileges too much for granted—"

"Blah, blah, blah," Ryoma cuts in, bored, "Shut up and tell him I'm here."

The new secretary gaps; Ryoma could see her teeth fillings and it's revolting. She had heard tales, of course, official commands from her employer. Ryoma imagines it would have gone something like this:

_There's this boy who comes every month. He's a commoner, plain as they come. Now, you're to let him in and give him the minimal courtesy, don't make him feel too welcome, or he'll be knocking every week. _

She would have asked, tentatively, in awe, _Who is this boy, Atobe-sama?_

He imagines Atobe-san's fine eyebrows, raised, _Well, it's a bit difficult to explain. You see, much as I detest him, he's the bridge that connects me to my son._

_Your son, Atobe-sama?_

_My heir-to-be. That is, if he's not already incompetent by that blasted boy. _

Atobe-san, in his suave mannerism, would have left out the fact that Ryoma was twenty three and a brat.

/

"Pleasant to see you as always, Ryoma-kun," the man says, his face indicating anything but. Ryoma jerks his head in answer, sitting down where he was bid.

"Tea? Coffee, perhaps, if you're not yet used to the British way?" Atobe-san laughs as if he made a particularly clever joke, and the secretary curls her lips along with her master as she pours him a cup. Ryoma predicts they'll be sleeping together by the end of the week.

"Water, thanks," he says, hands clasped on the armrest, watching how the secretary bobs her pert head and stands on the side, ready to serve. He makes a face.

Atobe-san takes the hint and gestures at the girl. "Amelia, let the board know I'll be out for lunch today—they could squabble amongst themselves, for all the good it'll do them."

"Yes, Atobe-sama," the girl says, and with another bow and a glare to Ryoma that implied _Behave brat, or you'll feel the wrath of my high heels_, she departs. Ryoma refrains from sticking his tongue out at her.

"They go by fast," Ryoma remarks, as soon as the door closes, "The last one was German."

Atobe-san gives him a tight smile, his own hands reaching out for his cup. "I wish I could say the same for my son," he says pleasantly, "How is he doing, by the way?"

"Still wallowing." Ryoma crosses his legs, acting bored. "Moping, sleeping past two." _Hating you everyday_, he doesn't say.

The man tsks. "Surely he's past all that," he says, disapproval layering his words, "You give me the same report every month, Ryoma-kun, I wonder if you're not just making it up."

Ryoma drums his fingers. "Sure," he agrees, after a thoughtful moment, "In fact, Keigo is dead in our flat right now as we speak, drowning in his own blood."

Atobe-san chuckles. "Sarcasm has always been one of his most disagreeable traits," he says.

"Good to know I learned from the best," Ryoma mutters. He feels irritated now. Thirteen hours of flight and jetlagged, he's not ready to deal with mind games. He should have checked in a hotel before facing the inevitable.

Atobe-san notices his small scowl, and his lips curve higher. "Did you come straight to the airport, Ryoma-kun?" he inquires mildly, "I did send a chauffeur to you. Have you missed it?"

"I avoided it," Ryoma quips, fiercely ignoring the incoming headache, "I wouldn't want to impose on your charity."

"And this isn't?" Atobe-san takes out a thin envelope out of the lapel of his suit jacket, his long fingers fishing out the white paper as if it contained something sordid. He dangles it between them. "If this isn't charity, I wonder what it is. I ask every time and you have yet to give me a satisfying answer."

"It's Keigo's inheritance," Ryoma says coolly.

Raised eyebrow and feigned surprise. "That he doesn't want?"

"And which is why I'm taking it for him." He snatches the envelope out of those fingers; Atobe-san leans back into his chair and looks amused.

"He doesn't want it, Ryoma-kun," he says, acting as if he doesn't say this every month, every time, "He wants to play the ratty middle class. Who are you to stop him?"

"He doesn't know how to live like one." Ryoma pockets the check, tired. He vows to check in a hotel and sleep before taking flight. "And besides, his moping costs a lot of money."

"Is he still pursuing medications?" There is that reproachful tone again, narrowed eyes. Keigo doesn't have those eyes. They are grey-brown, dark and murky.

"I dragged him to rehab once, he set the sofa on fire." Ryoma frowns and stands up. "Don't judge what you never tried, Atobe-san."

Atobe-san gives him the same mild smile again; Ryoma figures it's the same smile before the man dives in for the prey. "Who am I to judge my son, Ryoma-kun?" he says, "After all, he already reached his lowest point three years ago."

"Funny," Ryoma says. He turns to go.

"How pleasant," Ryoma says, and turns. A bodyguard on hold glares at him, attempting to communicate through non-verbal gestures that he wasn't clearly dismissed, _sit back down, sir_, but Ryoma only gives her a small smirk and a jerk of his hand. _Door, open._

Behind him, Atobe laughs. "Oh, let him go. My son wasn't much of a gentleman, and I highly doubt his lovers are either."

Strange, considering that Keigo was the epitome of a Victorian Darcy, with all the sarcastic wit and proper manners to boot. But Ryoma is too disinterested to comment on that fact, and doesn't even wave as so much an adieu to the room behind him.

He'll be back here soon enough.

/

A hotel in the end, is too much trouble, and he walks through the streets instead, his sunglasses shielding him from familiar faces he doesn't want to encounter. His head is bowed, nodding slightly; he is listening to music and in his own bubble. He maintains that façade until the metro takes him to the airport, and he waits, and he boards the plane, where he rides away the wait.

_Dear Keigo,_ he composes mentally on the flight back, a letter that he would never send. That's what all those lovers in movies did, didn't they; the ones that Keigo forced him to watch at least. The voices would drift in the background as they departed and reunited. _My love,_ they would all croon, _my love, how I long to be back in your arms again. I feel like a wilted flower in the desert without you; I am but a man in the great abyss of darkness, but with you I am like the roaring fire that kindles us both._

He had no such ability, but he was willing to try. So his mind wanders and forms the words that would never be uttered.

_Dear Keigo. After all these years and you still act like the greatest buffoon I have ever seen. You father is still a twat, that secretary of his is a whore, and I'm using horrible British insults that I picked up from you. You're always going on about how you act and sound like a proper British gentlemen, but you've never seen yourself when you're drunk, so. I rest my fucking case. _

_Where was I? Yeah, you're an idiot. Oshitari would say the same thing, you know. He would tell you off. I wish he was in London to do that, but you decided to severe all ties with everything that defined you, and here we are, in the mental paradise you made for yourself. You should be very proud. You're acting like Peter Pan in his drug-induced state. You should come back to Tokyo and face up your father. He's not a monster—well, at least not the monster you believe him to be. I wish—_

Here he stops. What was the point? This was a letter of grievances. Yet he is still here, on a plane to a city that is not his, to a man that is forever a boy who thought he was everything. He sighs and rests his head against the window.

Keigo. It had been used with rebuke and exasperation; today it is his last thought before he falls asleep.

/

He waits, 3 seconds, maybe four, before he steps out of the elevator. He makes sure his footsteps can be heard, his shoes touching the marble floor of the entrance. He takes his shoes off, lets the glass door slide open. He walks across the hallway; the floor is silent and still.

Perhaps Keigo is asleep. It's two in the afternoon and Keigo's day began with a cup of tea at midday. But when he rounds about in the kitchen, he sees Keigo leaning against the hallway, his slim silhouette shadowed against the sunlight.

"I brought eggs," he says, waving a bag, "From Tesco's."

"Good for you," Keigo grumbles. He still has bed-hair, his eyes red. He yawns, awake enough to cover his hand over his mouth. He gestures half-heartedly to the boiling kettle. "I made tea."

"You boiled water," Ryoma observes.

"Same thing, brat." Keigo's form is slouched as he leans against the kitchen doorframe. "I couldn't find the teabags."

Ryoma rolls his eyes, taking Keigo's hand and pointing it towards the counter where the kettle was finished boiling. "Next to the kettle."

Keigo squints, then shrugs it off. "Hm."

"Yes, hm." Ryoma sets down the bags and proceeds to produce two cups from the shelves. He feels Keigo's eyes on him before a rustling of plastic is heard.

"You brought food from Tesco's?" Keigo pokes at the bag with one finger, scowling like a child. Ryoma refrains from rolling his eyes twice.

"I told you that a minute ago. Don't be stupid."

Keigo's scowl grows fiercer, and Ryoma has to laugh, setting down the mugs to poke the other boy. "Oi, are you still drunk?"

"Hungover," Keigo mutters, rubbing his temples and glaring at Ryoma until he struggles to keep his chuckles to a minimum. "I boiled the water," he says again, to make a point.

"Must have cost you an arm," Ryoma says, smirking.

"It cost me five minutes of rest," Keigo points out. He's close to crossing his arms.

Ryoma relents and rolls his eyes. "Poor baby," he mocks, tearing open the teabags and pouring water into the mugs. The cups brew a dark maroon that soon turns black. He adds milk to Keigo's, sugar to his.

"Heathen," Keigo points out. Ryoma starts; Keigo entered the doorway without a sound, his arms now encircling his waist. Keigo's breath is warm, spread across his shoulder as his breathes out. Keigo plants a small kiss between the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

"Snob," Ryoma retorts back, his hand flicking over Keigo's mussed hair. A smirk curves on his skin.

"You mean British," Keigo corrects, letting his right hand grapple the handle of his own mug, milk with no sugar. "No one takes their tea with sugar except for Americans."

"British people know where to find their tea bags, you know," Ryoma says, and Keigo pokes him for that.

He doesn't mention the eggs again.

/

"How was work?" Keigo asks him over dinner, a wine glass dangling precariously between his fingertips. They don't sit in the dining table, they hardly do nowadays; Keigo prefers the living room, where the room has a terrace and the night air blows in as they sprawl across the leather sofa, listening to one of Nanako's old records.

"Passable," Ryoma says between bites. Keigo likes to mock his trips to Tokyo as often as possible, sometimes in lingering affection, seldom in nasty innuendoes when he's high. Keigo lets his lips curl half-heartedly as he traces a line with his free hand on Ryoma's calf. It tickles; Ryoma shrugs it off. "He has a new secretary."

"Are they fucking?"

Ryoma rolls his eyes. "Why is that the first question that concerns you?"

Keigo takes another delicate sip of his wine; many habits he had acquired over the years, but chugging down wine like a ragged alcoholic was not one of them, he always liked to sniff. "It doesn't," he says archly, "It just amuses me, is all. Poor mother."

Ryoma doesn't respond to that, eyeing the half-filled wineglass. He gestures to the bottle. Keigo raises an eyebrow but obliges him, standing up from his slouched position to produce a wine cup. He hands it to Ryoma with an exaggerated fashion of flair, taking the bottle and pouring him some wine. Ryoma takes a small sip.

"You don't drink." Keigo doesn't like to state the obvious when he's sober. Ryoma doesn't point him out for that, merely shrugs. "It's a drinking night," he says, as a way of answering, "It's been a crappy flight."

"But a nice visit?" There's that small smirk again; Keigo shifts his body towards him until their knees are touching. A hand curls around his ankle; Keigo lifts the foot to his face and kisses the talus bone lightly. His ankle in the dim light looks pale.

"Seeing your dad is always a plus," Ryoma manages. He swings the wine glass gently, "I still have my dinner to finish, you know."

"Boring," Keigo says disdainfully. His eyes take on a hungry look, orbs beneath frail eyelashes deep and unsettling. "I missed you." The shadows loom above him.

"I missed plate dinner." Ryoma shakes his foot gently. "Wait till I finish my rice."

Keigo frowns, but he obliges him, straightening up. There's a slight scowl on his face though, a child denied his treat. Ryoma berates himself as soon as the image conjures in his mind: Keigo, when he was young, his haughty eyes narrowing and willing people to his demands. He suppresses a smirk.

"Don't smirk," Keigo tsks, and his hands are back, tracing a circle around his ankle. "I can always tell when you're laughing at me."

He grins and picks up another scoop of rice. "I always laugh at you."

Keigo rolls his eyes, but the finger is insistent, a slight pressure with each round it turns. The ticklish feeling is gone as fingers splay themselves, moving up against his calves, stopping at his knees. His skin had faded away to paleness. Keigo leans down to touch his lips.

Ryoma shifts his food. "Keigo."

"Hmm?" There's a slight smirk again, a hovering joke between them. "You almost finished your rice."

"I need to brush my teeth," Ryoma says, trying to shift his legs; Keigo doesn't let him, his grip insistent. "And sleep. I'm shit tired."

Keigo doesn't release him this time; another tactic of his. He will pretend to concede, and when he senses a sigh of relief, he aims for the kill.

"Keigo," Ryoma says, more flatly. Keigo's eyes are dark as he looks up.

"And I need to fuck you," he says, against Ryoma's skin; his kisses are feather soft as they travel up. It is a crude command for such a tender gesture, as those kisses barely touch his arms, his hands.

Ryoma sets the plate aside as grey eyes come near. It is a muddled grey, hazy and dreamlike.

Keigo's fingers are cold as they trespass his shirt; Ryoma draws in a sharp breath. "Fuck, Keigo," he snaps, but all Keigo does is give him another smirk and pushes him down the sofa, "Your fingers are freezing."

"You're warm," Keigo responds, and fingers grapple with his ribcage, tracing the bones and gently clawing them, "I thought I'd warm myself."

"You are such a selfish—" Ryoma begins, but Keigo shifts his weight and straddles him. A kiss. Another hand goes down to unbuckle his jeans. "You taste repulsive," is a small murmur before he is kissed, again, three times.

"Fuck." Ryoma hides his eyes with one hand. "You're such a child. I can't believe I'm saying that."

"Neither can I," Keigo says against his skin, "I thought we established that you were the lacking of us two."

"In your world maybe," Ryoma mutters. His other hand decides to find Keigo's other; their hands brush, clasp. Keigo pins it down gently, and their fingers intertwine.

"I might sleep," Ryoma warns, and Keigo gives out another laugh; when Ryoma peeks out between his fingers, Keigo's eyes are glinting a fervor and his smile is intoxicating.

"I'd like to see you try," he says, and his own shirt is doffed.

He tenses, just for a bit; but he forces himself to relax. Keigo's hand squeezes; a silent gesture of unspoken comfort, for which Ryoma is momentarily glad.

/

Keigo's eyelashes are long.

Ryoma brushes the lashes as Keigo sleeps besides him. Keigo's frame is pale and thin in the morning light, his breathing even and almost still. Ryoma pauses for a moment to make sure that Keigo was still warm next to him. Keigo frowns in his sleep; his hand unconsciously waves in front of his face, irritation showing in his sleeping state. Ryoma swallows back a laugh. His fingers move back to his nose, his jaws. They are smooth, showing no signs of pimples or freckles most adolescent boys survived through. No acne scars. He fingers the side of a cheek: they are warm and inviting as silk.

"I wish you wouldn't molest me when I'm sleeping," Keigo mumbles. Ryoma can't tell if he's awake or not. He retracts his hand almost immediately. He berates himself, he knew that Keigo was always a light sleeper. He frowns.

Keigo doesn't open his eyes, but a small smirk rises up from his smooth complexion. "Am I that dashing to look at?" he murmurs into the pillow. This time, his scowl is directed specifically at the man.

"Aren't you tired of being egoistical all the time?" he shoots back, without bite. He notices, their hands are lying at parallels, half hidden in the sheets. He pauses for a moment before creeping out and inching out his fingers to Keigo's palm; Keigo, sensing foreign warmth, relaxes his fingers into an oval curve and allows Ryoma's smaller hand to rest atop. Their fingers twine.

"It's not egoistical if it's true," Keigo says, no mention of a brief transaction passing by. His voice is still muffled though, as his closed eyes are now buried, along with his mouth, into the depths of his pillows. "Be a dear and don't open the curtains. My head hurts."

Ryoma considers yanking them open out of spite, but he realizes that Keigo possibly did have a bit much to drink last night, and refrains.

Outside, the streetlights begin to dim, one by one, until the sun rises and another day ensues.

/

A/N: This is (yet again, what a surprise) another looooong fic I had stashed somewhere in my computer and thought it should see the light of day-it's 60% finished, and so hopefully I'll be adding the meat into the story as it goes along, since I have the basic plots and scenes all written down. Personally, I like this version of my royal pair better than any that I have written so far (my_ love series_ are more a spin-off and a poorer version of this story) but on the other hand, I wrote this version three years ago so I don't know how I feel about the writing. Feedback and reviews are always welcome!


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